


i'll be your gravity, you be my oxygen

by thisapathy



Series: come sink into me and let me breathe you in [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP, Parent/Child Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisapathy/pseuds/thisapathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The voice in the back of Rick’s mind is screaming at him to stop, but Carl's lips against his own are what remind Rick that he's still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll be your gravity, you be my oxygen

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, it was requested that I write something where Rick notices that Carl's getting older and is attracted to him, and they end up having sex in the house after the prison falls. Ngl, it was super hard to write this from Rick's perspective, but I think that's what the requester wanted. I hope you like it, Sam. I know it's not exactly what you wanted. 
> 
> Takes place before [slow it down](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3657558).

’The first time it almost happens they’re in the prison yard surrounded by the privacy of green bean plants.

Something tells him Carl’s not as interested in the leaves as he’s pretending to be. He turns, only for a moment, and Rick contemplates grabbing him right then, but when he reaches out he can’t follow through. Instead, he tosses his gloves to the ground and plucks a bean pod. He splits it open, fighting the urge to reach out and place one of the beans between Carl’s lips. Instead, he offers, and Carl obliges, taking a single bean and popping it into his mouth.

Rick does the same, sighing silently. If he were to make a move, this would be the perfect place: secluded, quiet, unexpected. But the dirt and grass aspect leave a lot to be desired, so Rick immediately dismisses the idea. Instead, he puts his hand to the side of Carl’s neck, fingers brushing against his hair, thumb grazing over his jaw.

“C’mon,” Rick murmurs. “It’s gettin’ late.”

* * *

When the prison falls, it falls fast. Rick makes it out alive, only barely, thanks to Michonne. He leaves her in favor of finding Carl, which he isn’t sure he’ll be able to do, but when two walkers in front of Rick are gunned down, Carl is standing behind them. When he runs to Rick, Rick holds him tighter than ever before, even when he ran to Hershel’s farm with Carl’s limp body in his arms.

“Judith?” he manages. “Where is she?”

”I don’t know,” Carl admits with the slightest shake of his head.

Arm around Carl’s shoulder, Rick limps past the burning tank. Resting on the concrete not 50 feet away is Judith’s carrier: empty, bloody, abandoned.

There’s a walker, but Carl guns it down with 3 consecutive shots.

Rick yells his name twice, and that’s when Carl breaks.

* * *

Carl becomes increasingly difficult to deal with. Won’t slow down, won’t listen to anything Rick has to say, acts like Rick’s never done anything like this before. And then Carl makes a game out of searching for supplies, and that makes Rick all the more angry.

When they finally stop at a house for the night on Rick’s say, it’s even worse.

”I tied the door shut,” Carl scowls.

Rick tries to scoot the flipped sofa against the front door. “Don’t need to take any chances.”

“You don’t think it’ll hold?”

”Carl.”

”It’s a strong knot: clove hitch. _Shane_ taught me. Remember him?”

It’s a stab; Rick knows that. It grates on his nerves the way Carl means for it to. “Yeah, I remember him. I remember him every day. There somethin' else you wanna say to me?"

Carl's gaze falls to the floor and he moves to help Rick push the sofa against the door.

The damn kid breaks his heart.

* * *

Rick doesn’t know how long he’s out for. He remembers waking up once, telling Carl not to go outside, but when he wakes up with his head in Carl’s lap, it’s dark out.

Carl’s just dozing off, but his head snaps up at the first sign of movement from his father. He smiles, small and weak and scared.

“Hey,” Rick manages. He goes to sit up, struggling, but Carl supports his shoulders gently.

“I’m sorry,” Carl blurts. For what, Rick doesn’t know. But he goes on to explain: “I was screaming at you when you were out. I said things... things I didn’t mean. I said I’d be fine if you died. I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Rick whispers, reassuring. He reaches up, running his fingers through Carl’s hair, has to remind himself that he’s still breathing.

But Carl isn’t having it. He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” And Rick’s pretty sure Carl’s leaning in for a hug, but what happens next is nothing short of unpredicted.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't think Carl wanted it, too, thought about it long before they lost the prison. The voice in the back of Rick’s mind is screaming at him to stop, but Carl's lips against his own are what remind Rick that he's still alive.

He's twisted at the waist, hand resting on Rick's thigh, but it's definitely not the ideal angle for kissing. They fumble for a moment, Rick trying to get comfortable, and Carl just too inexperienced to know better. Rick's still weak but manages to guide Carl onto his lap with a gentle tug. He relishes the way Carl's hands move, unsure, from Rick's shoulders to his hair to his neck.

He knows he should pull back, knows he shouldn't allow Carl to do this, but he can't deny himself this opportunity no matter how fucked up it is.

He's about to dip his head down for another kiss, but Rick can't resist and he presses soft, dry kisses on Carl's neck and that, apparently, is Carl's favorite thing because it gets him moaning.

"Quiet," Rick whispers against the shell of his ear, and he feels Carl shiver in his lap. Despite being barricaded in the house, walkers are always a threat.

"Sorry," Carl breathes, cradling Rick's head with his hand, pushing his mouth lower.

Rick obliges, but not before pulling off Carl's shirt and tossing it aside. He attacks, for lack of a better word, Carl's clavicle and relishes in the feeling of Carl tugging gently at his hair.

And then Carl's popping the snaps on Rick's shirt with careful, shaking hands and Rick has to grin because the shirt's fucked anyway; no amount of careful unsnapping on Carl's part is going to save it.

Rick shrugs it off when Carl pushes it from his shoulders and now they're both shirtless and they're still not stopping. And Rick wants to, he wants to stop, knows it's not right with any justification under the sun, but Carl's here and willing and he's the one to initiate it and honestly, what do they have to lose?

He's thankful that Carl doesn't ask how they're going to do this. As much as Rick would love to lay him down on the hard wood floor and fuck him till he's screaming, he can't. He's lucky enough to be able to do any sort of physical activity.

Rick needs to know, needs to be absolutely sure that he's not forcing Carl to do something he doesn't want to. He licks his lips, whispers, "Do you want this?"

Carl looks down at him again, eyes lidded, nodding. That's not good enough.

"Tell me," Rick insists, still whispering.

Carl swallows. "I want you."

And there's something about the way he says it with such certainty that flicks a switch in Rick because he wraps his arms around Carl's torso, pulling him incredibly close. Their mouths find each other, slow and sensual, and Rick doesn’t attempt to use his tongue. Instead, he pulls away, trailing kisses up Carl’s jaw to the base of his ear before pulling back, a smile tugging at his lips.

When Carl looks down at him, blue eyes mirror Rick's own. "What?"

"What, what?" Rick murmurs, voice still raspy, still grinning.

Carl licks his lips—something that Rick finds way too appealing. "Why are you smiling?"

"Nothin'," Rick whispers. His thumbs rub absent-minded circles into Carl's hip bones, callouses scratching the pale skin.

Their noses an inch apart, Carl whispers, "Don't be weird." And it's ironic, really, because right after Carl says that he presses his lips to Rick's mouth.

Rick closes his eyes, allows himself to feel it, and his hands leave Carl's hips in favor of finding his belt and undoing the buckle. Carl stands up momentarily, wiggling out of his black jeans and tossing them aside. (Underwear is a luxury now, one that neither of them can afford.) Rick takes the opportunity to unzip his jeans just enough to pull his cock out.

Rick watches intently as Carl crosses the room, digging something out of one of his tan canvas bags, and soaks in the purity of Carl's pale skin before zeroing in on the scar just below the left side of his ribs. It's darker than the rest of his skin, sticks out like a sore thumb in the dim lighting.

Carl slides down to his knees, throwing on over Rick's thighs until he's straddling his lap again. "Stare any harder and you'll burn a hole through me," he laughs, arms circling around Rick's neck, a tube of Vaseline still clutched in one hand. And that's the most Carl's spoken since this whole thing started.

"Sorry."

One corner of Carl's mouth turns up in a smirk. "Don't be sorry."

“Can’t be weird, can’t be sorry,” Rick murmurs. His hand goes to Carl's neck and Carl's heart is beating so hard that Rick is surprised he can't see it beating through his chest. He hesitates before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the center of Carl’s chest, pulse pounding beneath his lips. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Carl whispers, soft but sure. He pushes the bottle of Vaseline into Rick’s hand. And, okay, Vaseline isn’t ideal; Rick knows that, but it’s what they have and it’s better than nothing. He slicks a finger and Carl raises up just enough just enough for Rick to slide it inside.

Rick wants to moan at the warmth, instead breathes out his mouth. “You okay?”

Carl nods, totally relaxed, seems used to this, even. Rick can only imagine the things Carl does to himself when he’s alone. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to Carl’s shoulder, and he can’t get enough.

It isn’t until Carl starts bearing down on his finger that he gets the message and slips another one in. Meanwhile, his cock throbs where it rests between his legs.

He adds a second finger without much result, just more of Carl sighing impatiently, and it grates his nerve. He decides not to acknowledge it, instead focuses on fingering him efficiently.

But then Carl reaches down and gently pushes Rick’s hand away, watches as Rick coats his cock in the sticky, pseudo-lube.

“Let me,” Carl says, batting Rick’s hand away again, replacing it with his own and guiding Rick into him. The ease with which he takes it with makes Rick’s mouth dry, and he can only hope Carl’s experienced this with inanimate objects and not other people.

It’s all Rick can do to resist thrusting up inside of Carl when he sinks down fully, holds there for a moment. Rick wants to, it’s been so long, but he doesn’t have the strength nor the stamina to last more than a few minutes. If he focuses on how good this feels, how tight Carl is and how capable he is of taking the whole thing at once, he’ll come. So instead, he grips Carl’s cock gently, stroking, and then pumping.

Carl kisses him, less calculated than all the other times, and rocks back and forth a little. Rick loves this, wants to whisper dirty, _filthy_ things into Carl’s ear until he’s coming. Wants to tell Carl how many times he had to resist looking at any inch of skin that peeked out from under clothing, wants to tell Carl that he’s thought of fucking him face down on the shitty prison mattresses, face pressed into his hair, fingers intertwined, until he comes deep inside him.

Rick's held off as long as humanly possible. He grabs Carl’s hips, holds him in place as he fucks up into him.

"Oh, shit," Carl whispers, eyes squeezed shut, fingers knotting in Rick's hair.

Rick stops immediately, eyes wide with worry. "Are you-?"

"I'm fine, it's good," he insists. He dips his head, pressing a single, messy kiss to Rick's mouth. He reaches between their bodies, fingers wrapping around himself.

Rick starts thrusting again, resting his head back against the couch because the feeling is that unbelievable. His nails scratch the skin at Carl's hips hard enough to draw small droplets of blood, but Carl doesn't seem to mind because Rick's let loose. He's giving in to full, balls-deep thrusts, and suddenly the weight of Carl's torso is against him and Carl's coming.

Rick can't exactly breathe in this position, but he doesn't care, because the feeling of Carl clenching around him is enough to make Rick come, too. He presses his forehead into Carl's shoulder, and Carl's fingers are in his hair again as he comes down from his orgasm.

Carl slides off him with a small whine and Rick’s still trying to remember how to breathe. He clutches his side for a moment, taking a few slow breaths, and the pain lessens. When he glances over, he sees relief in Carl’s face.

Carl looks as if he wants to say something, but instead moves to pull his clothes back on.

Rick sighs and tucks himself back into his jeans. It takes him a minute, but he manages to get up and and sprawl on the couch once more. He’s out within minutes.

* * *

It’s daylight when Rick wakes up to the sound of Carl's soft footsteps padding back into the living room. He doesn't ask where Carl's been; it's better for his sanity not to know.

“Hey.” Carl sets his canvas tote bag down on the couch, pulling out a white t-shirt and tossing it to Rick. “Thought you could use a new shirt,” he explains.

Rick chuckles, shallow and gravelly. “Thanks.”

Next he pulls out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a washcloth, offering them both to his father.

Rick looks at him squarely. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.” Carl tosses the bottle into Rick’s lap. “You look like shit,” he says. He’s probably biting back a smile, but Rick can’t see enough to be sure. “Sit up.” Carl steps closer, grabbing the bottle of peroxide and settling on the edge of the sofa.

Rick knows it’s easier to comply; it was always the same with Lori. He watches fondly as Carl carefully wets the corner of the cloth with peroxide, lifting it up to dab at the cut on his forehead. He winces because it hurts.

During a few moments of companionable silence, Rick tries to gather his thoughts, tries to push what happened last night to the back of his mind. He wonders if they should search for more food or other supplies first.

“Hey.”

Carl pulls the washcloth back, eyeing the cut on Rick’s forehead intently. “Yeah?”

Rick wonders if this is all just a distraction for Carl or if Carl is really that worried about the cuts on his forehead. More importantly, he just needs reassurance that Carl's okay, that last night didn’t scar him forever. "Carl."

“What?”

“Look at me. Are you okay?”

Carl looks at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Tired," he admits. “Hungry.”

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant," he murmurs, offering Rick a small smile, finally looking him in the eye. "I'm just tired." He hesitates before offering Rick further reassurance in the form of a soft kiss on his mouth. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

The answer should be no, he should be disgusted with himself, should never have let last night happen, but honestly, he’s absolutely fine. He can’t afford not to be.

“I’m okay, too.”


End file.
